Eulogy
by whatserface
Summary: Reflecting on Dean after the events inside the asylum. ONESHOT erm... okay, maybe TWOSHOT... okay, THREESHOT, but this time I mean it!
1. Dean

_-- Okay! This is my first Supertnatural fic (yay for me!) so go easy on me, big ol' meanies! I kid, I kid_..._ basically, I wrote this because I didn't think Asylum said everything_._ It was obvious at the end of the episode that Dean was in real pain, more real then a bruised rib, but they didn't delve into that at all_..._ so, that's why you have me . anyway, I own nothing! NOTHING, YOU HEAR ME? NOTHING! So don't sue_..._ instead, give me Jensen Ackles for Christmas_.

..._ I'm serious, he_'_s on my list--_

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**D**ing dong, Dean died today... well, not really...

He felt like he'd died. He would have had to question on that, if it weren't for the steadily churning pain in his diaphragm. Lucky he'd been shot with the rock salt first then, ah? Damn, he had a dark sense of humor sometimes...

Now he sat in the driver's side of his precious '67 Chevy Impala, the only one he could trust never to leave him. What? You honestly think, to someone who'd seen all the things he'd seen in his life, who knew all the things he knew and above all how huge a single life is, that something as insignificant as a car would be cherished simply for being a car? No, it was symbolic. It was a little mind game he played with himself to stay sane, or as sane as someone who hunts demons for a living could be.

He clenched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white, a way of coping with the pain that sitting upright made him want to vomit and/or pass out. He would have clenched his jaw, too, but Sam might see that when the street lights roll through the windshield... he couldn't give Sam the opportunity to vent on him. He didn't need his guilt now, not tonight.

Sam, who was staring at him now; as if he could read the lines of Dean's face, decode the subtle twitches and dimples into his thoughts word-for-word. Good luck, Dean had been working on his poker face since he was ten! Sam hadn't been able to call him on it since he was fifteen, either.

His brother, his brother, his god damn baby brother! Dean had cranked an old _Metallica_ tape up as loud as his ear could handle it to separate himself from his brother. He couldn't deal with speech right now, the wounds were still too fresh; and we're not talking about his chest here.

His baby brother, whom he'd devoted his entire life to protecting and caring for, had tried to kill him. Sure, he knew that the crazy doctor had a hand in it... but they were Sam's emotions, no matter how you sliced 'em.

Dean had given up his childhood after their mom died to take care of Sam. Ever since the moment their dad had thrust his baby brother into his arms, Dean had taken his orders as something eternal. Growing up, they were all they had... their father had always been out hunting, leaving them alone with relatives or something rather of, until they were finally old enough to be trained to hunt, too. Even then, they'd always been a team... their father had taught them how to work in perfect sync.

That was always their niche, but Sam never wanted any of that... so Sam left. It was the most painful experience of Dean's life. Something broke inside him that day, and he knew it would never be back... it wasn't his connection with Sam, no; he was ready to patch that back up the moment he'd seen him again at Stanford. It was something... in his heart, perhaps his heart entirely, that died.

He'd failed at protecting his brother then, the cord that bound them together had been broken, and now it was reoccurring to him. At first, he thought he'd failed again... now, he had to consider if he'd never gotten back on the job at all. He'd tried; he'd sure as hell tried! But had Sam ever let him? Could he overpower Sam in that way? Was it even possible? What had he always been so sure of, that was escaping him now?

Now he was cold, colder then he should have been, and he couldn't stop his mind from wandering back to the events that had just passed through him. The pain was just too real.

His brother, his baby brother, had really hated him enough to kill him... or, at least, he would have if there'd been any bullets in that gun. Of course there wasn't, Dean may have been blonde but he wasn't stupid! Why had he even let it go on that long? He could have blown the show right after Sam had discarded the shot gun. When he thought about it, he'd try to convince himself that it was so he could brace himself against the spreading pain that had overtaken his sense after being shot with the rock salt (not to mention force of that having thrown him through a wall), but in the very bottom of his mind, he knew the truth... he had been doubting Sam.

Dean knew he loved Sam (_in an entirely brotherly way, you perverts!_); he didn't have to say it or even acknowledge it. It was always there, always had been; simple as that. But after Sam had shot him with the rock salt, and he'd laid barely able to breathe on that cold, dirty floor... his intentions were fearful, he had to prove them wrong. So he waited after Sam took the bait... only to prove them right.

His brother pulled the trigger, and Dean felt his heart stop. Dead on his back, no need for bullets; the lack of loyalty had done him in.

And to think... what was it, a week ago? Last week they were in Kansas, and Dean was holding Sam to him and rocking back and forth after his baby brother had been strangled nearly to death by a poltergeist. This week, Sam had shot and killed him.

His whole life seemed built on shaky ground now, and Dean was left trembling. He tried to concentrate on something else to prevent from losing control. Dean was the stone giant, nothing ever got through his skin. He was the rock... no wonder his own family walked all over him.

Dean kept his eyes fixed on the road as if it were the most interesting damn thing he'd ever seen, glancing up only momentarily to scan the blinding neon signs. One in particular caught his eyes. Sure, a letter was out so it said "Star-Lite otel", but it was the closest one he'd seen and if he didn't lay down soon he feared his chest might explode all over the impala's beautiful interior.

He swung through the opposite lane into the parking lot well above the speed limit, causing his sibling to grab the dash in his usual start over Dean's stunt-like driving, before gliding to an easy stop into one of the cut out spaces next to a red pick-up truck. He had to hold his breath when he leaned foreword to pull the key out of the ignition to prevent his body was releasing any tiny sound over the pain. He succeeded, stiffly, before lumbering out of the impala and dragging his feet to the reception office, not once glancing back to see if Sam was following him.

He did the regular fake ID, fake credit card deal, signing the fake name in a fancy cursive he'd never use otherwise on all the paperwork, before receiving a key. Room 28, wonderful; he'd get to climb stares to the second floor of the motel!

He hauled his ass into their room about three minutes later, Sam practically breathing down his neck as he stumbled with the key in the lock. He couldn't get his damn hands to stop shaking! It pissed him off a little, but he got it, and lumbered off in the direction of the bathroom without a word to his brother. No conversation had passed between them since Dean had groaned about just wanting sleep, and he liked it that way, too!

Once inside the safety of the tiny white room, Dean locked the door with a small click, and then leaned over the sink. He tried to allow his breaths to come in heavy like they wanted to, but the pain was unbearable then. He settled for the nasal hiss that had been growing shallower and shallower since he'd been shot.

He looked in the mirror, and instantly thought that he'd definitely looked better! His skin was sickly yellow/white, like milk that had gone over. Dirt and grime were smeared on his face and clothes, as well as the ash and cobwebs that netted in his hair. He smirked sadly, but couldn't keep it on his face.

His brother hated him enough to kill him. The pain in his chest wouldn't let him forget. Sam might as well of shot him in the heart, then... suppose the diagram was good enough for now, though. Maybe he'd shoot him in the heart next time...

Before Dean realized it, tears had collected in his eyes. He wiped them away with a vengeance, but the dirt and dust on the back of his sleeve just made the smeared tracks more defined. Sighing – which stung like a bitch I might add – he flicked on the faucet to a warmth that suited him, before scrubbing his hands clean, and then cupping them under the water so that he could splash it on his face... after he learned how to bend over without groaning like he'd just been kicked in the stomach.

He leaned back up, very slowly, hissing with the number it did to his injury awareness. The throbbing that had not relented since it'd been inflicted inspired him to lift up his shirt and check the area... a deep, angry redness interrupted the paled flesh, with darker more varied colors blossoming out from the zone of maximum impact. Oh yes, another bruise to frighten the eyes of the normal was forming pleasantly on his body again.

Regularly, this would be when he'd have Sam bandage him up – his ribs were more likely than not cracked, or even possibly broken – but not tonight. Tonight, he couldn't bear it... for God's sake; he couldn't even stand his own brother's eyes on him! A touch would break his neglected heart.

Instead, he allowed the fabric to fall back into place. He shook himself off, and recovered enough composition to face the world again... he hardened his poker face on his features as he reached for the knob, before twisting it and descending out into the room.

His brother glanced up from where he was reclined against the bed closest to the bathroom, the TV on and remote in his lap, but his lips did not move and Dean was grateful.

The elder brother crossed the room to the empty bed, plopping down on the side of it and removing his shoes, pants, and jacket. He crawled under the covers before removing his shirt so he could hide his wounds beneath their security, before bundling up like a child with his back to Sam, and then closed his eyes.

He couldn't say that any of this surprised him... physical pain was something he'd learned to withstand from an early age, and emotion something he'd learned to discard. It was unnecessary, and could get you killed. Besides, he'd been taught through experience that everyone was going to leave him; die or leave or just forget to stay. How could anybody really care about him if that was the outcome of all his life's emotional attachments?

No one loved him, no one ever would... he was alone, now and forever, and he'd taught himself to accept it and move on. He'd thought it was different with Sam – hell; he'd even taken a second stab at it! – but he knew better now. It hurt greater then his chest could ever muster, but he choked on it. It would go away, it always does... die or leave or just forget to stay.

He drew himself away from these contemplations and tried to focus on ignoring the pain and lowering himself into a state of half-consciousness. The last thoughts he remembered thinking before darkness and rest took him was that he might as well be dead... because, even though his chest would return to normal over time, he still bore wounds that would never heal; only sink beneath his consciousness.

Ding dong, Dean Winchester died today. Funeral services in his head; the clouds gathered, but no one came...


	2. Sam

_-- I'm back! Yeah, I didn't really intend to write this at first_..._ but a reviewer said they wanted to hear my take on Sam, too, and I was still on my jazz from last night sooo I just couldn't resist_. _Anyway, it's basically the same time frame and situation, just from the younger Winchester's POV_. I_ still own nothing, I still want Jensen for Christmas (don't we all?), and so on, and so forth_... _--_

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_OMG! Reviewer reply time!_

**wild wolf free17 -** Thank you

**niyanna -** Thanks for the support! I'm not saying you're wrong or anything, but Dean looks blonde to me... hence why I wrote that shrug

**spootycup -** Thank you so much! I'm glad you liked it I was a little worried at first that people would think I went too far with the angst, but you said I nailed it, so... thanks!

**Spectral Scribe -**Thank you immensely! You're comments really mean a lot to me... because, by what you said, that means I succeeded in everything I set out to do. I'm glad you liked it.

**Sweet as the Punch -** Thank you yeah, I needed the previous chapter, too. I think that anybody who really loves the brothers and their interaction needed more then what the show gave us... but, hey; that's what writers like you and I are for! Yay for FanFiction! Here's the second part for you .

**Ghostwriter -** Thank you, I'm really glad you enjoyed it!

_Thank you guys, and anyone else who will review in the future, all to much_._ You guys are the most important part of the story!_

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**E**ven though the music was blaring, the silence was killing Sam. He couldn't stand the distance, it made him want to cry out and pull at his hair... worse yet, he couldn't stand the guilt. Every silent second was another steady throb of guilt running through his veins.

God, Dean wouldn't even _look_ at him! Didn't he believe what he'd said? The doctor made him do it... well, at least, that was the extent of what he'd said. He's only apologized for speaking cruelly to his brother, not for shooting him with rock salt and then trying to kill him. He couldn't, his throat wouldn't allow the words to pass.

Whenever he thought of what he'd done his throat got very tight and knotted up. He wanted to apologize again, he wanted to get on his knees and cry and plead for forgiveness, above all; he wanted Dean to understand.

But it was clear Dean didn't. Sam hadn't been able to get anything passed Dean's poker face since he was eleven, but when it was serious Dean's eyes always told the whole story... and Sam had never seen this look in Dean's eyes before. Little did he know he would have seen it before he left for Stanford, if he'd bothered to say goodbye to his brother and protectorate.

The look in Dean's eyes, the distance, the silence – not to mention the eerie sour milk color Dean's skin was taking on – all frightened him. Demons, ghosts, and the likes hadn't frightened him since he was thirteen, but all the factors listed above were almost more then he could handle, and yet he couldn't tare his eyes away.

Dean's eyes were so... emotionless. Something cold and mechanical was overtaking them, some dark humor no one wanted to hear. Sam wanted to break down, cry and tremble in a fear and grief he'd never before known, curl up in a ball and cover his eyes with both his arms.

Why was he unable to say it? Why couldn't he just say "Dean, I love you"? What kept his throat knotted for that, so even a broken whisper couldn't get through? Why? Winchester pride... or fear?

He remembered the asylum; he remembered everything clear as if it'd been just a regular day. Now he regretted admitting that to his older brother... but he already had, and it was too late to take the words back.

He remembered being so angry, so angry he had to clench his jaw to keep himself from exploding. His hands shook as he pointed the gun at Dean's chin. Now, they'd had some fight before, and Sam had been pretty damn angry at Dean before, but what was happening now... he was oozing pure, unchallenged rage. All his other emotions were out the window, he was so angry he couldn't even handle it!

He had to get the anger out of his system, and the only way he could think of was expressing it... although, it's not like he had a choice. The anger was so great it would have forced its way out, anyway.

It started innocently enough, doing something to inflict bodily harm on his sibling... even if that bodily harm came from a shot gun and blew this sibling of his through a wall. Then there was shouting coming out of his mouth, cursing and slurring; drunk with rage. And then the whole world had changed...

Dean had managed to silence him with his own set of words, and followed them up with an action Sam would never forget for all its horrors. Dean reached into his coat, slid a gun out of it, and handed it to Sam.

The rage prompted Sam to be more interested at first with the weapon. He could take a life with this... he could take _Dean's_ life, the pillar of all that rage that was built up inside him at the moment. Where did his big brother get the right, anyway? They were both adults now; it was time to act like the team they'd been trained to be if they had to work together... but _no!_ Dean couldn't do that! It drove him crazy, literally...

He pointed the gun at Dean's face. He wanted to pull the trigger, but he faltered. He didn't know what happened in that moment... maybe, just the tiniest bit of Sam's inhibitions was strong enough to shine through the inflicted rage... but it wasn't enough.

Sam pulled the trigger. Sam shot his brother... or he would have, if it'd been loaded. It wasn't, but that didn't register in Sam's rage-clouded mind. He pulled it again and again, but nothing happened. He was struck dumb.

He was glad he hadn't seen Dean's face in those tiny moments, or he knew it'd haunt him to his death bed.

From then on, it was a little bit of a blur. He remembered Dean saying something about the gun not being loaded, and then twisting his arm and beating him down into the darker reaches of unconsciousness. The last thing he remembered was Dean apologizing to him. Jesus, Sam had shot Dean and Dean was the one to apologize for a damned sucker punch!

When Sam woke up he was himself again, and it took more then a minute for what had happened to register... but now, as he sat passenger side in Dean's '67 Chevy Impala, it was all far too clear, replaying in stunning horror on the TV set that was his mind's eye.

Now it seemed Dean had spotted the "Star-Lite otel", as he swung through the opposite line (which was, thankfully, empty) into the parking lot with speed and precision to turn the best of the best Hollywood stunt drivers green with envy. Sam instinctively grabbed the dash.

Sam noticed Dean's stiffness at pulling the key out of the ignition, and it sliced through him like a knife in the dark. How bad were Dean's injuries, really? He knew his brother would never admit to any form of pain, he'd learned that easily enough over the years, and he also knew there was no way in hell Dean was going to show him! Even if Dean needed his help, Dean wasn't going to ask for it... not tonight. Sam knew his big brother well enough to know that.

Now they lumbered off between the reception office, the stairs – which Dean walked up very slowly – and then their door where Dean fumbled with the key. Sam tried to glance over his brother's shoulder to see what the problem was, but Dean was slumped over trying to hide it from him. Again, pain stabbed at Sam's heart and guilt washed over him like a black, murky waterfall.

When the door was open, Dean slipped off into the bathroom without a word. No conversation had passed between them since Dean had groaned about just wanted sleep, and Sam hated it that way!

Sam sighed miserably, before crossing the room to the bed closest to the bathroom and dropping down on the side of it. He removed his shoes, pants, and jacket, before crawling into the bed and resting his back against the headboard. He picked the remote up off the nightstand and turned on the TV, scrolling through all sixty channels absent-mindedly.

Dean hated him now, Sam knew it. There's no way Dean would ever forgive him... but he hadn't meant it! Sure, Dean ticked him off on a regular basis, but that never meant that he would want to kill him. Sure, he'd entertained the idea a time or two as a teenager, but he'd never been _serious!_ He loved Dean... he really, _really_ did.

Sure, Dean's favorite pastime was poking fun at him, Dean's choice in music was stuck in the 80's and, frankly, sucked; Dean was a cocky bastard and almost never shut up for longer then two seconds, and a pervert, and they disagreed entirely on how one's life should be led, as they disagreed on almost everything, but damn they made such a good teams! They were their own flesh and blood, and Dean's negative traits were never really something Sam let get to him...

Sam loved his irritating, cocky, perverted, 80's metal-loving, smartass brother. Given the opportunity, he wouldn't change a thing about him... so how could he have shot him, you ask?

It's normal and natural for siblings to argue and fight, and to get pretty damn pissed off in the process! The doctor exploited that, and turned childhood rivalry into something intolerable and curable only by homicidal actions taken to indulge the rage. The doctor who was supposed to help people become sane literally forced him into insanity!

Without Sam noticing, tears had collected in his eyes. He whipped them away with a vengeance, the back of his arm gleaming afterwards where the salty drops had smeared together. There was a mirror on the wall. He got up and looked in it momentarily. There was still a tear collected in the corner of his eye. He whipped it away with the back of his index finger, before stumbling back to bed and repositioning himself.

He didn't hate his brother enough to kill him. He didn't hate his brother at all! That son of bitch undead doctor had used him, exploited his emotions into something dark and unnatural... now he only had to hope that Dean would realize this, come to terms with it, and come back to his baby brother.

Speaking of Dean, the bathroom door began to creak open. Sam's eyes shot to it, and stayed on Dean's figure as he staggered out of it, begging him to speak... but still, there was no sound. Dean crossed the room, threw off his clothes, and went to bed... his back to Sam.

Another stab of pain and guilt rolled through Sam, drenching his senses. He shivered in its wake. His eyes stayed on his brother's back, silently begging for at least a muttered "g'night"... but nothing came, and the hotel room suddenly seemed so dark and even heavier with silence then the car.

Sam flicked off the TV and light for Dean's benefit, before slinking down under the covers and lying on his back. He watched the passing car's headlights come through the window next to the door and spray yellow shapes a crossed the ceiling, and wished to die.

Yes, Sam lay there in so much pain without a psychical wound on his body. He wouldn't sleep tonight, because he couldn't face the dreams... he knew they'd be of Dean, he knew they'd be nightmares taking him back inside the asylum again. He could hardly handle the memory sanely; a nightmare he feared could push him over the edge.

Sam lay very still, trying to focus on something else, banish the pain... but nothing helped. Finally, he dropped it all like a heavy load of glass wear he'd been carrying in his arms for a far distance, letting it fall to the ground and shatter. In his weakness and in his anguish and turmoil, he felt he wanted to die... in that impossibly long night, he could have embraced death at any hour.

Lord, save him... 'cause nothing was ever going to be the same. Dean would never forgive him, and he knew he'd never forgive himself for that. The brothers Winchester were separated now, an emotional roadblock and not another single lane in all the world. The only thing that united them... was their acclaimed deaths.

No comment.


	3. Winchester

-- _And again, I come back_... _yeah; this sure is a one-shot, ah? Anyway, people sure are going stir crazy over that ending, popping out fics like hell! I persist that there was only one on the site when I posted this... don't know which one that is; didn't pay attention. I just remember seeing "asylum" and thinking "somebody beat me to it ALREADY?" (I was posting at, like, four in the morning) __ANYWHO! I don't own spit, and I ain't makin' money off of this, so turn your lawyers in another direction_. _I'm gonna go on with the story as if the phone call at the end of the episode never happened, because that would just be awkward trying to work that in here_. This _really will be the last installment, so I hope everyone enjoys it_...--

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_Dun, dun, dun! Reviewer replies!_

**Ghostwriter-** Really? I thought I might have made him a little too sensitive, but you disagree and that's kicks ass, lol! Thanks for reading :-)

**ashlyns -** Thank you!

**Nate and Jake -** It's one of your favorites? Really? That's fantastic! Thank you!

**spootycup -** Well then I ALMOST suceeded in what I set out to do, lol! Dean'll forgive Sam because he loves him blindly, of course; that's what having a sibling is all about... believe me, I've got an older brother and a younger sister. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

**Spectral Scribe -** the line "no comment" was just kind of trying to reflect on the chapter in total... on the silence and how Sam couldn't tell Dean how he felt and all that. I'm really glad you thought I was true to Sam, though; I was a little worried I was making him overly sensitive... I'm more of a Dean person, too. I love Dean's personality, he's a lot like me... except less cooky :-P thanks for reading and reviewing and enjoying and giving me such gracious compliments! Oh, how I suck them up...

**4everdreaming -** lol! Thank you, here's a final chapter just for you :-)

**HealerAriel -** "Hold, comfort, and do unspeakable things to Dean" AMEN TO THAT! What? We're all horny Dean lovers here, it's not our faults :-P ANYWHO! Damn right about those stupid evil gusy pitting brother against brother... we need an episode with lots of sappy brotherly-love chick flick moments! Who's with me? lol! And Jensen really is a fantastic actor, watching that last scene if I didn't know better I really would have believed the look on his face! Thanks for reading and reviewing, not to mention juicy compliments... mmm,compliments...

**Latanya Kassidy -** I, personally, think "Skin" was the best episode... followed by "Home"... by "Asylum" takes a stiff third place, damn it! I totally agree about the ending, we needed _more!_ We, as fans and horny Dean lovers, needed to see the kind of shit writers all over this write are all dishin' out... but thanks for reading and reviewing! Always apprichiated :-)

**Angy -** happy Thanksgiving to you, too! I'm glad you're liking my story, and my portreyal of the brothers... I was so nervous that I didn't get them in character before I posted this but now everybody's so reassuring! Thanks for reading and reviewing and wishing me, a total stranger, a happy holiday. Have a good one!

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**L**ight. It shined on his face, burning through the backs of his eyelids. Dean grumbled and rolled over on his side, but a wave of fiery pain washed through his body, emanating from his chest. He quickly fell over on his back again, in an attempt to stop it. Breathing slowly, the night before came back to him...

_Click, click_, the empty sound of the trigger being pulled. No bullets... no bullets in the gun, the gun in his brother's hand, the gun he gave to his brother, the gun his brother killed him with.

He clenched his eyes shut tight and groaned, trying to banish the painful memories. So fresh... the wounds... not real... emotional... someone save him, he couldn't live like this! It only got worse when he heard the toilet flush, the bathroom door open. It was too late to pretend to still be asleep.

Sam lumbered back into the room, glancing at his brother's bed. Dean was awake, and Sam winced. What would happen today? Was it going to be a repeat of last night? How long could they go on like this? He couldn't take the silence anymore; he had to do it, even if it grieved him almost as much as the lack of sound...

"Hey Dean," he barely breathed. He had to clear his throat, try to make it loosen up. He felt dumb saying what he was saying, but he couldn't think of anything else; "How y'feeling?"

"Just peachy, thanks," was his older brother's reply.

Dean tried not to visibly wince when his brother asked him how he was feeling. How the fuck did he expect him to feel? For one thing, he'd been shot with rock salt and throw through a wall; and for another, his own brother had done it to him! Sam had tried to kill him! But he had to keep up appearances, so he muttered one of his typical remarks.

Sam pulled a clean pair of pants out of his bag, slipped them on, and then sat down on the foot of his bed. He played with his hands nervously, keeping his eyes in his lap. How could he feel so uncomfortable around his own brother? This was crazy! This was all crazy!

Dean sighed inwardly. How miserable, he'd have to get up and get them out to the car. It was what he would do on any ordinary day, so it was what he would do today... it worried him a little, though. His chest had barely been able to take twenty minutes of sitting upright yesterday! How was he gonna drive all day today?

Well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. The immediate order of business was sitting up... which wasn't particularly easy, either. He let out an involuntary hiss at the crunching of his diagram, to which Sam looked up at his.

_Damn_, he thought. He played it cool, leaning his back against the headboard. He tried to give his brother a "_what?"_ look, but he found he couldn't. He couldn't look in those puppy dog eyes and keep his composure, not yet anyway.

Sam heard his brother hiss, and looked over. Dean was in pain, he could tell... of course, Dean would never admit to that, but it didn't matter. For a moment, Sam forgot all about the events of the previous day, jumping up and turning to his brother.

"Your chest is still messed up?" he asked him, gently.

"No," Dean lied, a little too quickly. "Just stiff is all..."

"Maybe you should let me look at–"

"No, Sam, I said I'm fine!"

Sam jumped at his brother's suddenly harsh tone. Dean seemed to notice this, and shrunk a little where he sat. Sam looked away, remembering his guilt... all he could think was that things would never be the same, it repeated in his head like a broken record, and it broke his heart.

Dean saw Sam jump from the corner of his eye. Immediately he felt bad for being so hard on him... Sam may have shot him, but he was still his little brother, and as impossible as it seemed Dean would never stop trying to protect him.

Dean frowned and tried to keep his breaths even, it hurt to breathe for fuck's sake! He knew how to make up for his behavior, but he sure as hell didn't want to! On any normal day, he wouldn't have... but today was anything but normal. Today was his first day being dead.

"Take a look," he grumbled.

"What?"  
"I said take a look," Dean repeated, a little louder this time. This seriously sucked. "If you wanna, I mean..."

Sam couldn't believe it. He'd heard it twice, and he still couldn't believe it. Was Dean really going to allow baby Sammy to _help him?_ Certainly not! But he'd said, he'd said it twice... and Sam knew he wasn't in great shape. Dean may not have been as pale as last night, but he was still lighted in color then he should have been, and the sound of his breathing worried Sam. It was too shallow, too labored... he worried Dean's ribs might be cracked or broken.

He approached, and Dean sat up straight and held out his arms, pursing his lips miserably. Sam could tell he was hating every minute of this, but he knew it was for the best. Very gingerly, he touched just outside the bruise, feeling for the ribs. Dean cringed as he got closer to the epicenter, and Sam apologized without even on reflex.

Finally, Sam pulled back. He told Dean, "I think a couple are cracked... I'm gonna bandage them to be safe, okay?"

"'Kay," Dean said dryly. Sam would have smirked at his brother's childish mental attitude towards the whole thing, but not on a day like today. Today was his first day being a murderer.

Sam ran out to the car to grab the first aid kit, and Dean finally dropped his arms, letting his breath out in a very long, though shallow, sigh. So was this how it was going to be now? Pretending like some lousy actors that everything was alright as they skirted around each other? Dean thought that just might drive him mad faster than the silence...

Sam came back, bandages in hand, and went to Dean's side to get to work. A few minutes later, it was done, as Dean could breathe again! Don't get me wrong, it still hurt; but at least now he could bear through it.

When that was all done and good, Dean threw on some clean(ish?) clothes and then turned to his brother. "You ready to hit the road, Sammy?"

Sam nodded and followed him out to the car. They got in, pulled out, and drove away... again; the radio – blessed Zeppelin – separated them. Dean tapped his fingers on the wheel along with the rhythm and began to feel a little bit better.

That cassette ended, and another took its place. The day ticked on and it almost felt like everything was gonna be alright if you didn't think about it... until, two or three tapes later, Sam decided to take the place of the musical distraction.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Where are we going?"

Dean shrugged. "Don't know... some place with food, though, I think; 'cause I don't know about you but I'm starved."

Sam rolled his eyes. Yes, the mood was a little lighter... but the tension still hung in the air above their heads, and as much as he tried to ignore it; it was driving Sam crazy! Well, maybe after yesterday, crazy wasn't the best word for it... damn figures of speech reminding him of his guilt!

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm," Sam choked. He couldn't say it. He had to say it. Damn the consequences, he'd rather blow his brains out than go on like this! "I love you, Dean."

The car slowed, and Dean's brows knitted. Sam didn't have the courage to look up, but he did notice the car beginning to get a little too slow... finally, Dean swung the wheel and pulled over to the side of the road. Sam couldn't look at him, absolutely could not! The guilt was racking his body, and the anticipating that this was going to end horribly was heavy in his mind...

Dean sighed shakily, putting his hands together on the wheel and resting his head against them. Sam forced himself to look. His brother looked like a statue, carved from the stone that made him so strong... but how was he holding on now? Was he faltering? Sam couldn't read his face, couldn't read anything about him, not even in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Dean, I'm so damn sorry," the words just left Sam's mouth, flew right out as if they had a mind of their own. His eyes began to water.

"Sam, what did I tell you about chick-flick moments?" Dean teased, even if his voice sounded nothing like teasing. It was void. But at least the teasing was a good sign!

"I don't care if its chick flick," Sam sobbed. "I don't care! I don't care about anything, damn it! I can't... do this, I can't live like this!" Sam paused to wipe at his eyes, but it didn't matter. The tears just kept coming, completely of their own accord. "... What's the point if you don't love me anymore?"

"I don't love you?" Dean echoed. "Really? 'Cause I could have sworn you were the one pulling the trigger..."

"I know that, damn it; I know what I did! You think I don't know? It's haunted me every second since it happened!" Sam was wiping at his eyes again. This was getting out of hand. He hadn't meant for this to happen. He flicked the passenger door open and stumbled out, but he didn't make it far. He gave up and dropped down, leaning against the side of the car.

Dean battled within himself for a minute, sitting behind the wheel. He didn't even understand what he was feeling! His mind and heart were churning in a way that he, with his devil-may-care attitude, just couldn't comprehend... but he knew that he had to take care of Sammy. That was always first priority. He opened the door, stepped out, shut it, and walked around.

Sammy was sobbing into his hands, trying to be as quiet and humanly possible. His knees were up against his body, and he looked so much like a child again... Dean melted, remembering the days when he was Sam's hero. Sam looked up to him than, trusted him to guild him, wanted to grow up and be just like him... obviously, a lot of things changed after puberty.

Dean walked over and crouched down beside his baby brother, setting his hand on his shoulder. Sam glanced up at him hesitantly, and his eyes were absolutely gleaming with tears yet to be shed. This was too much! It was like watching a starving wounded puppy suffer... just not cool.

Dean struggled for a moment with the words to say. He didn't even acknowledge _his own_ feelings, how was he supposed to help someone else with theirs? He knew whatever he said was gonna suck, but he also knew he had to say something... anything, if it would end Sam's pain.

"Look, Sammy, I'm sorry... for being so hard on you. I do love you, little bro; nothing could ever make me stop... especially not some little ghosty, I don't know why we let it get this far anyway!"

But Sam shook his head. "You're bull shitting again..."

"Huh?"

"Dean, why don't you ever just admit that you're not Superman and express something for once? You've kept everything pent up inside you since you were _five!_"

Dean's eyes faltered to his shoes. Damn, way to shoot a guy down... but he knew that hadn't been Sam's intention. Sam thought that the only way to get passed things was to put them all out on the table. Dean strongly disagreed, but this time; he'd do anything for Sammy.

"What do you want me to say, Sammy? Do the whole David Copperfield thing? I'm born, I grow up, and _how does that make you feel?_" he mimicked the last line in an weak voice. "That's not me, Sam."

"I know," the younger sighed. "And that's not... what I'm asking, I just..."

There was a silence again, and the two brothers were each far off in their own thoughts. They were thinking about their whole lives, about every little wrong they'd done onto each other, and how fleetingly small and hopeless it all seems now. Could everything they went through be undone by one stupid spirit? Sam wouldn't let it go on like this.

"Dean, I have to tell you... I only apologized for what I said. I need to... I... _I shot you_, Dean, _I could have killed you!_ But... but I never wanted to, never. You've gotta believe me. I don't hate you, I don't want you dead, I don't... I get irritated with you sometimes, and you know it; I'm sure you get irritated with me, too–"

"– Oh yeah," Dean 'expressed', raising his eye brows. Sam gave a sad little laugh, the best he could muster up at the time being.

"Look, the point is... I love you. That son of a bitch took my emotions and he... he amplified them, turned them into something... dark and unnatural, for lack of a better term. I would _never, ever_ hurt you of my own free will." Now the younger fixed his brown eyes on the elder's hazel ones, a dead seriousness in them that was fierce to its core. "I would _die_ for you, Dean."

Dean tore his eyes away, with some effect, and pretended absent mindedly to be fascinated with his shoe-lace, wrapping and unwrapping it around his finger. Everything he'd felt the night before was replaying for him, and now he was questioning himself again... but this time it was for better.

Finally, he replied. "I know, Sammy... I always have."

The Winchester in question cracked a smile, and this time it was for real. "I'm not gonna leave you again... ever."

Now Dean looked up. "Liar."

"No, I'm serious!"

"We'd kill each other... obviously."

They laughed, and it was free and opened and honest, and the wounds on their hearts began to mend. The scars would always be there, thick and angry, but they could both tell now that the bleeding was going to stop, a scab was going to form and dry and flake and heal, and everything really could be alright. Never again like it was before, but it could still be okay... they could still be brothers, now and forever.

Dean stood up and brushed off his pants. "C'mon, let's get back on the road. We have to get to ­Poughkeepsie."

"Why Poughkeepsie?"

"Check your laptop. Four deaths in two weeks; eyes, ears, and tongues removed."

"See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil," Sam quoted the old saying, catching his brother's drift. He reached for the handle on the driver's side door, but Dean stopped him before he pulled it.

"Oh, and Sam," Dean was looking over the hood. Sam glanced up to demonstrate that he had his attention. "What just happened back there, _never reaches another soul_." Sam laughed, and Dean had to worry a little. "Dude, I still have shit on you, too."

"Yeah, like what?" Sam was still chuckling.

"Mansfield, Georgia," Sam stopped chuckling the second the words left Dean's mouth. Dean smirked, and dropped himself in the car. "So, we've come to an understanding then?"

"Just shut up and drive," Sam said as he got in and pulled the passenger side door shut.

The Winchester brothers did not die today, neither of them; or any day before... and for the deaths they suffered through the night before, they were reborn. The road may be long and hard, but they would spite it at all turns... and that, my dears, is the real moral of this story.


End file.
